Promises Kept, The Story of Number Two

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  We were about twenty feet away from them when he turned around. I stopped dead. Rosanna moved toward Mom. “Are you all right?” she said.

  Mom was shaking. “I’m fine.”

  I could tell by her voice she wasn’t.

  Marc had moved toward us. He was close enough to grab us. “Hello, girls. It’s been a long time.”

  “Not long enough,” I said.

  He laughed. “I’m sure you don’t mean that,” he said.

  “I mean it, all right,” I said. “We don’t like you.”

  “That’s funny,” Marc said. “Your mother invited me to dinner this weekend.”

  I almost fell over. How could she? Why would she?

  “I’ll bring pizza,” he said.

  He must have thought pizza would take the sting out, but it didn’t. It somehow hurt more.

  He and Mom talked for about fifteen more minutes, then he left, saying he’d see us this weekend.

  “You didn’t tell him where we lived, did you?” I asked Mom.

  “He said he’d help us get a new apartment,” Mom said.

  “You know he’s lying,” Rosanna said. “He just wants to get back in your life.”

  “Nonsense. You have to have some trust.”

  “That’s not how you taught me,” Rosanna said. “You taught me to suspect everyone’s motivations.”

  “That only applies to strangers,” Mom said.

  “As far as I’m concerned, he’s a stranger to us,” I said.

  “I know it seems that way,” Mom said, “but he’s a nice man.”

  Rosanna quit arguing. I grunted. When Mom made up her mind, there wasn’t much we could do about it. I kept quiet, and dreaded the night he’d come over.

  * * *

  I didn’t have to dread for long. Marc stopped by that weekend, and he brought an ample supply of beer, enough to keep him drunk from Friday till Sunday. To top it off, he surprised me by spending the night with us, something he hadn’t done much.

  Rosanna and I went to bed around 9:00. Sometime around midnight, I heard noises from Mom’s room. I went to see what was going on. As I crept closer, I could hear Marc’s raised voice, and Mom was yelling even louder.

  “Don’t you ever…” Mom said.

  “I’ll do what I want,” Marc said.

  The next thing I heard was the sound of a slap. Then the sound of a lamp hitting the floor. Then Marc yelling, “You son of a bitch.”

  I went back to my room to tell Rosanna. She would know what to do.

  “Get out!” Rosanna said. “Now!”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. Go to the cops, or the hospital. Just get out of here. I don’t trust him.”

  “What about you?” I said, then we heard Mom scream.

  Rosanna shouted, “Run! Don’t tell anyone your name, not even the cops.”

  “Come on,” I said, but she wouldn’t leave.

  Rosanna ran down the hall to Mom’s room. I wanted to follow her, but I wanted to leave, too. I didn’t know what to do.

  Finally, I decided to sneak down the hall and see what was going on. The closer I got, the clearer I could hear Rosanna scream. Mom was quiet.

  When I pushed the door open, he was standing there with his pants down. Rosanna was on the bed—her clothes were off—and Mom was on the floor, bleeding.

  I grabbed the scissors off the nightstand and stabbed him in the back, then I ran down the hall and locked the door.

  Within five minutes, the door burst open, and Marc ran in. He grabbed me and threw me on the bed, then he started ripping my clothes off. I was able to break free, then screamed and jumped from the bed. I ran behind him, and pushed on the scissors, still sticking out of his back

  He hollered and reached around to yank out the scissors.

  I ran for the window and opened it, then climbed on the sill. It looked like a million miles to the ground, but I knew it was only about twelve feet. Still, that seemed like a long way, and I was little.

  I thought about it, then thought more. I kept thinking about it until I heard Marc’s voice as he came across the room.

  “Let’s see who runs this house,” he said.

  I jumped before he finished talking, then I heard Rosanna scream again as I hit the ground. I hid in the bushes, then, when I felt it was safe, I made a run for it. I ran for three blocks before I found a phone I could use. I dialed 9-1-1.

  “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

  “Somebody’s hurting my mom and sister,” I said. “Hurry. We live on Union, at the corner of Kearney.”

  I hung up the phone, and hid in an empty doorway until the ambulance came. Before long, they came out of the house with three gurneys. One was covered with sheets. My chest tightened. Who was under the sheets?

  After a few minutes, the ambulance left, sirens blaring, and thirty seconds later a cop car came. I was tempted to go talk to them, tell them what happened, but then I remembered what Mom and Rosanna said about not trusting anyone, not even the cops, so I stayed hidden and waited for them to leave.

  A few days later, I found out they took Mom and Rosanna to St. Francis Hospital on Hyde Street. It wasn’t far away, so I decided to sneak in and see them.

  The hospital sat on Hyde, between Pine and Bush. I waited for a middle-aged couple to walk in and followed them. Anyone who looked would think I was with them. At the first split in the hallway, I turned right and went on my own, looking for a nurses’ station. I didn’t have to go far. Two nurses were at the desk.

  “What room is Rosanna Mercaldo in?” I asked.

  The nurse stared at me. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Maddy. Her sister,” I said.

  She smiled, then searched the computer. “She’s in room 212.”

  “And my mother?” I asked.

  She hesitated, then said, “I’m sure the doctor will talk to you while you’re visiting your sister.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, and left to find the elevator.

  When I got to room 212, Rosanna was sleeping, but a doctor was there. “Where’s my mom?” I asked.

  He sat in one of the chairs, and said, “Your mother suffered serious injuries.”

  “What kind of injuries?”

  He held my hand and said, “I’m sorry, Maddy, but your mother didn’t make it. She died.”

  “What! How? Why?”

  “Someone hurt her, and the internal bleeding killed her. I know the police are looking into it.”

  “No!” I screamed. “She couldn’t have died. She couldn’t have.”

  The doctor pulled me to him and hugged me. “It will be all right,” he said. “We’ll find you some place to stay.”

  “Okay,” I said, through tears, then—when he let go—I ran from the room and out of the hospital. On this day, my life changed forever.

  That’s when I found out Mom was dead. That’s when I learned that Marc wasn’t even arrested. That’s when I swore to kill Marc. He’d pay for what he did.

  On The Run

  Tears poured down my face as I left the hospital. What would I do now? What could I do? I had nowhere to go and no one to live with. As I walked out the front door, a cop car was pulling to the curb.

  “There she is,” one of them yelled, and pointed at me.

  I ran as fast as I could, and I kept running. After five or six blocks, my lungs felt as if they were on fire. My chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe right. Halfway up the hill, I stopped, hands resting on my knees as I gasped for air. I looked behind me for the hundredth time in the past few minutes. No one. Nothing but fog. Thank God for that. I let a little hope fill me.

  Maybe I'd ditched them. Maybe I'd really gotten away. All that was good, but where the hell could I go? I had no family. No friends. No one. And it was now clear I couldn't trust the cops, just like Mom said.

  All the running made me hungry. And thirsty. I walked a few more blocks, constantly checking to see if I'd been followed.

  Up ahead was a recessed do
orway. An old homeless man was curled up against the wall, his head resting on a stack of newspapers and his body covered with a coat for a blanket. I looked behind me again, and then ducked into the doorway.

  He didn't stir. I moved closer, sat on the concrete walk with my knees raised and my back propped against the wall. I glanced at the man again. He wasn't as old as I thought. Just dirty. I wondered why he was homeless, and then it hit me. I was homeless too.

  I was homeless, and I was starving.

  And freezing, I thought, and moved even closer to the homeless guy, trying to get some of his warmth. I almost wanted to crawl in under his coat, but there was no way I was getting that close.

  The first night on the street was more than frightening. It seemed as if every time I closed my eyes, the wind howled louder down the funnels carved from the skyscrapers. If I blinked too often to clear my eyes, the sounds of people walking and talking, murmuring about whispers of plots—maybe to kill me—kept me wide awake. At one point, I looked at a clock in a store window. It was 3:45, and I cried. I couldn’t imagine falling asleep anytime soon and I needed rest.

  At about 4:40, the homeless guy—who I now knew to be called Mick—woke up and looked at me. “You okay, girl? Looks like you’ve been crying.”

  I sobbed, and nodded. “I’ve got nothing left. I never had much, but now I lost my mother and my sister. What am I gonna do?”

  Mick moved close and put his arm on my shoulder. His sleeve was covered with dirt from the sidewalk, and his unshaven face held a layer or two of grime. “It’s not easy, girl. Startin’ over is never easy, but when ya’ got nothin’ to start with, it makes it harder. Some say it makes it easier because you’ve got nothin’ to decide on—no other place to start—and they might be right about that. But hard or easy, either way, you’re gonna do it.”

  He pulled me close and let my head rest on his shoulder.

  “You can do it. I see the strength in you. You’ll make it if you want to.” He gave me a squeeze and a pat on the back. “You’ll make it even if you don’t want to.”

  Sometime before morning, I fell asleep. I jumped when I felt someone shaking me. My eyes popped open, early morning sunlight catching me by surprise. I poked my head out of the recess and looked down the street both ways.

  “Whoever you're running from ain’t here,” Mick said.

  I looked at him. No question he was homeless, but under all the grime he looked…clean. His smile showed all his teeth, and his eyes showed his smile. “Who said I’m running?”

  Mick laughed. “Seen enough young girls in trouble to know. But you’re the youngest. Want to tell me what happened and who’s after you?”

  I glanced at Mick, then back down the street. My stomach growled, but felt sick at the same time. I shook my head.

  “Run away from home?” he asked.

  Another shake of the head.

  He looked me over. “Can’t imagine anyone tossing out such a cute little thing as you. You got parents?”

  The “cute little thing” comment almost scared me, but then I realized he said it with warmth, not in a creepy way.

  I looked down at my shoes, filthy from running the streets, and took a deep breath. “My mom’s dead. I never had a dad.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and I believed him. He sounded sorry.

  I looked up at him, trying not to cry, but I couldn’t help it.

  When the tears came, he pulled me to him and hugged me. It didn’t matter that he was dirty, or that he stunk—he was somebody who cared about me, and right now I needed that more than anything.

  As I lay against his chest, he rocked back and forth. “When did she die?”

  My crying turned to sobs. “Last night.”

  He held me tighter. “My God. You poor girl.”

  After a minute or so, he stood, taking me by the hand. “They’ll be here to roust us pretty soon. Let’s find something to eat.”

  “I’m starved,” I said.

  “Me too,” he said. And then, “You're gonna need a coat. Nights get cold out here. But I guess you know that now.”

  My arms were wrapped around my body, trying to stay warm. “Mornings are pretty cold, too,” I said.

  “What's your name?” he asked.

  I almost told him, but then shook my head. “My mom said never trust anyone.”

  “Your mom was a smart woman. But that’s all right. You probably need a new name anyway.”

  We walked a few blocks and he said, “How about Millicent for a name? We could call you Millie.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, but a few blocks later, I ditched him. Mom had told me never to trust anyone, and I learned that in spades with Marc. I knew it would be tough fending for myself, but I was determined to try it.

  I slept on the streets that night, in the doorway of a jewelry store. The owner woke me the next morning, and not in a nice, gentle manner.

  “Get up, bitch,” he said. “I don’t want no junkies hanging around here.”

  I saw no sense in telling him I was just a scared, hungry, young kid. I don’t think he’d have cared, so I simply left, muttering an unkind thought or two along the way.

  I hadn’t gone three blocks when I ran into a few kids about my age, or a little older.

  “What’s up?” one of them said. He was the cutest in the bunch.

  “Nothin’,” I said. “Just lookin’ for a place to stay.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Got the place to stay,” he said. “Come with us.”

  I followed them for a few blocks. When he turned to enter an abandoned building, I hesitated.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Just follow us,” he said. “You can stay here.”

  “What’s it gonna cost?” I asked. “I don’t have any money.”

  “We’ll work something out,” the good-looking one said.

  “I don’t want to ‘work something out,’” I said. “I want to know now.”

  “No big deal,” the guy said. “You take your clothes off and do us all, and you can stay here.”

  “No way!” I said. “You’re nuts.” I turned to leave. He grabbed my arm, but I broke free and ran. Halfway down the block, I looked behind me. They were chasing me, so I kicked it into another gear. I turned the corner and headed up the hill, hoping they’d get out of breath. I was almost up the first block, when an older guy stopped me. It was Mick.

  “Where you goin’, Millie? What’s your hurry?”

  It looked like I was gettin’ that name whether I liked it or not. “Some kids chasing me,” I said.

  “What are they chasing you for?” he asked.

  I looked down the street. They were still coming, so I turned to go. The old man grabbed me by the arm. “Stay here,” he said.

  He walked toward the kids, who stopped when they saw him.

  “Hey, Mick,” one of them said.

  “Hey,” said the others.

  “What are you boys after?” Mick asked.

  “Nothin’,” they said at once.

  “That’s a lie!” I yelled. “They tried to screw me.”

  “Is that true?” Mick asked.

  “Just wanted some payment for room and board,” the cute one—who I didn’t think was cute anymore—said.

  “And where do you send your room-and-board checks?” Mick asked.

  “You know we don’t pay no room and board,” one of them answered.

  “But you want it from her?”

  “I guess.”

  “Tell you what,” Mick said. “From now on, pretend that this girl is my daughter. Treat her like that and we’ll be okay. Treat her any other way, and I’ll be visiting you.” Mick shot them a hard glare. “Understand?”

  “Yeah,” they all said, then turned to leave.

  I looked up at Mick in a new light. He was unkempt, with a scraggly beard, but he had a friendly look on his face, and a soft, warm voice, just like I r
emembered. Despite what Mom had said, maybe he was someone I could trust.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No need for thanks,” he said. “I was just doing the right thing for you.”

  “Not many people would have done that,” I said.

  “More than you think, girl. The problem is that not many people would put themselves in a position to do it. If they did, they’d have done it.”

  I thought about what he said, and had to agree. “I guess so.”

  “So what are you gonna do now? You got a place to stay?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “I stay down by Union Square, where you were last night. You’re welcome to hang out there, if you want.”

  It didn’t take me long to make up my mind. “Fine by me. Lead the way, ’cause I forgot.”

  He started walking, then took me by the hand. “First thing we gotta do is get you a blanket,” he said. “Nights can get damn cold.”

  “I found that out last night, but I don’t have any money,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about money. I know a place where they give out blankets for free to anyone who needs it.”

  “Where?”

  “Down on 6th Street. It’s not far. Maybe a twenty-five minute walk. Then it’s only another twenty minutes to home.”

  I stopped. “What do they want for the blanket?”

  “I told you. It’s free. Some people do things for others. Not everybody wants to screw you.”

  “Those boys wanted to screw me,” I said.

  He laughed. “That they did. And can’t say I blame them; you’re a pretty girl. I imagine if I were young again, I’d want to screw you, too, so don’t blame them. Besides, it’s a fact of life—young healthy boys want to screw young pretty girls. End of story.”

  At first, I was angry, then I thought about what he said and realized he was probably right. After that, I continued along with him.

  We walked to 6th Street and got a blanket, then we headed back to Union Square. It didn’t take us long to get there; Mick walked fast for an old man, and he knew all the shortcuts. Just after dark, we settled into a cozy corner of one of the stores by the coffee shop. I pulled the blanket over my shoulders and tried to sleep. It’s not that I didn’t trust Mick, because I’d made up my mind to give him a chance, but at this stage of the game, I couldn’t afford to trust anyone.